


my skin has lost the feel of you

by DEATHEXECUTION



Category: Lords of Chaos (2018), Mayhem (Band)
Genre: Angst? kinda, Blood, Blood Kink, Blood Loss, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Light Angst, Light Sadism, M/M, Masochism, No Smut, Pelle basically wants Øystein to murder him!, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Suicidal Thoughts, Trust, as usual, autassassinophilia, idk man it’s just really edgy, necrolust, Øystein’s an asshole
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-22
Updated: 2020-05-27
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:35:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24328126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DEATHEXECUTION/pseuds/DEATHEXECUTION
Summary: editing this later. this probably has a lot of mistakes but I wanted to post something sooooo
Relationships: Dead | Per Yngve Ohlin/Øystein Aarseth
Comments: 8
Kudos: 33





	1. 1

**Author's Note:**

> editing this later. this probably has a lot of mistakes but I wanted to post something sooooo

It’s been a week.

My skin has lost

the feel of you.

  
“I’m only doing this for the band, Per.”

I nod, my eyes forlorn as he snatches my covered wrist, and I hiss.

He flinches in exchange, dismayed by my apparent distress. Then he proceeds to realize that he had grabbed the wound _itself_ ,

_and he didn’t even apologize for it; he didn’t apologize for hurting me._

_That’s okay though, I like pain anyway._

_I’m supposed  to like pain; that’s how I live up to my name, right?_

_But... What if I told him that I no longer liked it?_

_What if I told him that destroying myself wasn’t as satisfying anymore, if not at all?_

_ He’d probably spit at me and call me a faggot or something along those lines, but I wouldn’t mind. _

“So you’re not doing it for me, then?” I pester. “You can always just hire a new vocalist, yeah? If you hate me that much then why don’t you just let me die.”

I watch him as his expression turns sour, violated, almost. He looks up and our eyes meet.

Suddenly the floor we’re both sitting on isn’t as cold anymore. 

He seems at a loss for words for a bit, but he just _had_ to keep that fierce arrogant asshole persona, so, of course; he said the first thing he thought of:

“Listen. You’re what’s making us famous, alright? I can’t let you die like that. _That’s like the lamest way to die. ever._ ”

I snort. “Tsk. So suicide isn’t  black metal  enough for you?”

He rolls his eyes and looks back down at my arms, reaching down and rolling one of my sweater sleeves up.

“Come on, answer me,” I continue bugging the Norwegian as he examines the deep gashes on my left arm. 

But he completely ignores my pleas. “How are you not bothered by these wounds? They’re so deep, its almost as if you went any deeper—“

My eyes widen a little as I look directly at him once again. He doesn’t look up this time though, simply keeps his half-lidded eyes focused on the wounds in fascination.

“Finish it,” I breathe out.

He arches a brow and finally looks up again; our eyes meet for the second time. “Finish what?”

“The sentence.”

I wanted to hear it from him.

No.

I  had  to hear it from him.

“The fucking sentence,” he laughs, smirking at me smugly. “You’re fucking  sick , Pelle.”

I grin at the bitter truth.

“But that’s why you like me, right?” I cock my head to the side tauntingly, blowing a stray strand of gold out of my  too  pale face; _That’s what blood loss does to you. It makes you look like a fucking ghost._

“Never said I liked you, but okay,” the guitarist shrugs, before standing up and looking around my almost-empty mess of a room.

I sigh. “What are you even looking for? What? Are you thinking of confiscating my knives or something—“

I cut myself off.

“Or are you gonna finish the job for me?” I finish slowly, and it’s almost like his head  snaps  to look back at me. The look on his face is unreadable.

“What do you mean?”

“Kill me. There’s nothing more  _black metal_ than killing your own bandmate, right? So,” I drag on, suggesting something that I’d assume would shock him. “Why not? Wouldn’t that boost your image or something? Of course, you’d go to jail, but then you can just say that it was consensual— as if that’d help.”

His expression dropped and his eyes darkened as he looked away from me, turning back around to step out of my room.

“You’re an actual fucking dumbass, Pelle.”


	2. you wish for death

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Øystein complies.

You return to the room with bandages. Me being left alone with nothing but my thoughts and deafening silence, I couldn’t resist the question:

“Do you hate me?”

Taken aback, you stop  dead in your tracks, standing in the doorframe as you stare right back at me.  God, the look on my face must be pathetic.

“Pelle,” you sigh meaninglessly, sitting back down on the floor; a roll of plain white bandages in your hand, a pair of scissors in the other.

_All I ever wanted was acceptance._

“Pelle  what?”  I murmur bitterly, looking down at the taped-up wounds on my now exposed forearms.

All I ever wanted was to be accepted by you.

“Don’t change the topic,” you glance up at me through stringy black curtains of dyed hair. “We’re not talking about that right now, are we? Leave it.”

You couldn’t even do that, huh?

You put the items in your hands down, reaching lower to grip my left arm. You place it in your lap and begin peeling at the tape that kept the wounds shut together.

I can see the brown roots of your hair from here, as I’m now watching the top of your head. The roots look ugly, I’m gonna have to dye your hair for you again.

“Actually,” I clear my throat quietly. “We aren’t talking about anything at the moment, so this is my sad attempt at talking to you like a normal—“ I pause and look around for a moment. “—Normal human being..?”

You chortle. “Per. There’s nothing  normal  about asking your bandmate to kill you.”

“That’s not what I was talking about.”

Maybe I cut in way too early, as you didn’t even reply. The tensions was thick and clear around the disgusting air around us; it’s bigger than my room. Maybe bigger than life itself.

You couldn’t even fucking accept me.

“Then what exactly are  you talking about,  Per? ” You snap, giving the tape you were peeling a hard, fast tug; ripping it off with ease and making me wince in pain.

The saliva in my mouth turned thick and unbearable; dry. Your temper was all over the place again, your personality was so fucking big despite your small frame. The more I thought about it, the more unsettling it was.

“Just fucking—-“ I take a breath to calm myself down; gulp and look down at you properly. You’re still focused on removing the tape from the gashes, but you’re much  rougher  now. “Just answer the question, Øystein.”

“Which one?” Your eyes narrow and you try to hold back a smirk. I can still see it despite your head being lowered and somewhat hidden by a veil of black stringy locks.

This time it’s my turn to fight back the urge to punch the shit out of you.

“Sarcasm doesn’t look good on you, Øystein,” I roll my eyes and yank my arm away from your grip once you’re done ripping the bloody tape off.

“And being independent certainly isn’t your thing, Pelle. Let me put the bandages on now,” you fire back stubbornly, grabbing my wounded wrist and pulling my arm back onto your lap. “Now keep it there. I’ll bandage it up for you.”

There was a subtle softness in your tone. This is probably as affectionate as you get, right?

“Well it seems like having a strong enough brain capacity to answer a simple question isn’t really your thing either, is it?” I scoff in response, deciding to completely ignore the delicacy of that oddly concerned tone of yours. 

You sigh in defeat and tip your head back up, looking right back at me for once. You seem fucking pissed, and I won’t blame you. I was  trying  to piss you off after all. I wanted to bring out the worst in you.

I wanted to enjoy pain again.

The only way to enjoy it again was to make you inflict it on me.

I watch intently as you blow your hair away from your eyes. A swift shiver passes my body; a shiver of sheer excitement.

You know what?

I want you to hate me.

I want you to fucking despise me.

The look in your eyes says it all. I’ve got you right where I wanted you to be.

“Listen, Pelle,” you huff. “I hate you. I actually fucking hate you cause you’re everything I’m not. I’ve never wanted to  destroy something, or rather  someone , as bad as I want to  destroy you.”

A pang of  pleasure  shot through my cold body. I’ve never expected you to say that, more importantly, I never knew how much I needed to hear it from you. I had to bite the inside of my cheek in order to hold back a grin; and I bit  hard.

“Happy? Is this good enough for your  twisted fantasies? “ You taunt, your thumb pressing into my wrist in a bruising grip. “You sick fucking  freak ,” you spit lowly, your eyes darkening in a mocking demeanor.

This was what I meant earlier. Your personality was bigger than you were yourself. You were all of it at once; intimidating, caring, genuine— fuck.

Anguish rose and gripped at my heart as I felt nothing but a cold, icy void somewhere deep in my stomach. I don’t know what I was feeling so  anxious  for, but it was the weirdest feeling ever.

I wanted more of it.

“Say it again.”

Sayitsayitsayitsayitsayitsayitsayit.

You break character with a sudden laugh, and suddenly you’re hunched over, trying to hold in a laugh. I didn’t really understand what was so funny, but, knowing you; you probably found my desperation hilarious.

Wait. Desperation?

Shit.

“You’re fucking  disgusting , Per!” you laugh hysterically — as if this was the funniest thing in the whole world.

I’ll admit it. I’m sick in the head, sure, but was it really that funny?

“It can’t be  that  funny. You’re being over dramatic,” I mumble and look down at my arm; my wrist is marked a flushed red from your strong grip. It seems like those dumb workout sessions of yours paid off for sure, but I wonder if this was your full potential.

No way, it can’t be.   
I wanna put that to the test.

Humans tend to fear death. The fear of death leads to  hunger.  The morbid curiosity of wanting to find out what’s beyond a no-longer beating heart. The fear lead to humans wanting to get as close as possible to death.

That’s the beauty of it. That’s the cold embrace of death. Once you get a taste, you can’t ever have enough; you’ll long for it more and more everyday, all until you  snap. All until you cave in. 

I’ve always wanted to die; you knew that, but you didn’t know  how  I wanted to die.

Initially, I’ve always wanted to kill myself; there would’ve been nothing more satisfying than dying on my own terms, granting myself an escape that I could choose myself. 

But then again, the thrill of murder — the potential feeling of vulnerability and helplessness as you’re pinned to the ground, a knife held up to your neck, digging into your skin—

it drives me insane.

“But it is,” you can’t help but grin, moving some of your hair away from your face. “You don’t realize just how pathetic you sound, right? I used to wonder if people take me seriously, but damn, if they can take  you  seriously then I must be the most serious person ever.”

I don’t know if it was intentional or not, but this only made me  happier. I felt degraded— I felt hurt emotionally, and it felt good.

But I had a better idea.

“So you’re not taking me seriously, huh?” I smirk, standing up slowly, making sure that my balance was okay enough to let me stand. The blood loss was making me dizzy, and hopefully;

I was about to make it worse. 

You watch me carefully without another word. You watch as I stumble over to my desk, my head growing even dizzier, and it was  not  cause of the blood loss. It was more or less cause of the  adrenaline rush  that I got from all the things you said about me. Maybe you  watching me  can give me an even  bigger  rush.

You’re gonna take me seriously after this. I won’t stop until you do.

A hunting knife. That’s what catches my eyes. It was what I had used to cut myself in one of our previous concerts. This bitch was as sharp as it gets; it sliced through my skin like paper, so unless it’s all of a sudden dull, it should work perfectly.

“ What are you doing ,” your voice is stern behind me. I can’t help but grin at the sudden change in your tone.

“I’m proving myself, of course,” I reply matter-of-factly, turning on my heels, the knife now in my hand. “I want you to take me seriously, Øystein.”

You’re still sitting on the floor, gazing up at me curiously. The concern etched over your features doesn’t suit you at all, but it excites me. I could only imagine what your face would look like if I  bled out in front of you;  bled out to death, of course.

Something about that thought was so fucking comforting and warm; like a gentle heat enveloping around me and sending electric sparks down my spine. Death was my highest form of euphoria — dying in  your arms  was even better.

Or so I assumed.

“Listen, Pelle. You don’t fucking  need  to ‘ prove yourself,’  I know what you’re capable of, just stop and let me finish bandaging you up—“

“No.”

The lack of self-control made me cut you off mid-sentence.  I can’t let this go. I can’t let this end, I fucking need it.

Before you can continue, I’m already sat down on the floor right in front of you. My hand reaches out with the knife, offering it to you. 

It’s an open invitation, and it means a lot to me; more than you’d imagine. 

I need this.

I fucking trust you enough to let you do this to me.

If you won’t accept me properly, then at least accept me like this.

“I seriously don’t understand what the hell you’re trying to do right now, Pelle.”

I grin widely, holding back an odd twitch of some sort. I felt like I was fucking  fleeting;  the look on your face made me hot all over.

I couldn’t think of anything else — the thought of you pressing that blade deep into my skin; cutting me open and watching me bleed, all of it being done by  you, you, you.

You. Your name loops in my mind over and over again like some sort of hellish mantra.

“I want you to cut me.”

An apparition of a breath parts my lips, my words don’t fall on deaf ears though. You process my words and something fucking hits you; it must’ve been realization. Sure, I won’t blame you — this offer was  supposed  to leave you disturbed.

“Of course you do,” you smile, your voice coming off oddly passive-aggressive, your expression didn’t match your tone.

You don’t even hesitate to take the knife from my hand, even  better;  you didn’t even fucking question any of this, as if you had long awaited to do this in the first place.

I wouldn’t doubt that; we’ve been on bad terms for a while now, no wonder you were so quick to take the weapon from me.

“I’m not gonna sugarcoat this,” you clear your throat. “If you want me to do it then fine, if you’ve gotten to the point where you need  other people  to do this  for you  in order to  get off then alright, sure.”

My eyes cloud up and I seem to lose my focus.

_I couldn’t stop thinking about you._

_I couldn’t stop thinking about you taking the knife and fucking stabbing me with it. I wanted my blood on your hands, and I wanted you to be proud of it._

Finish the job that I had started a long time ago.


End file.
